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PROLOGUE
The first thing Shiree Williams noticed, on arriving home on a cloudy mid-afternoon, was that the pathway outside their double-story Boston home had been swept clear. All the way from the road to the front door was spotless. She stared at it—surprised and reluctantly impressed—feeling somehow as if a wrathful wind had been taken out of her sails.
For how long, exactly, had she been asking her husband, Evan, to do that? She’d tried everything from texts to notes to reminders left on the refrigerator door.
It was almost as if that unswept, never-attended path had become a symbol for the frustration she was starting to feel about their entire marriage. That it wasn't working. That Evan was never going to be the husband she'd hoped he would be.
Then there was the whole issue of the dirty underwear, shirts, and socks that were strewn around the house. The plates and dishes left in the sink. The towels dumped on the bathroom floor. She'd always been a clean freak, but Evan didn't even seem to notice.
Running a hand over her neatly bobbed brown hair, adjusting the collar of her work jacket, Shiree thought about what this path meant.
She had to admit, she'd been ready for a fight. Today would have been the tipping point. In fact, she'd been planning to call Evan when she arrived home and tell him they needed to have “a meeting.” “A discussion.”
He must have gotten an earlier flight home after his business meeting, and now this was almost like arriving at someone else's house. Neat, clean, and ordered.
"Well, this sure is a turnaround," she muttered to herself. She climbed out of her car—she’d parked in the driveway, because although there was room for Evan's sports car in the double garage, the side where her SUV was supposed to park was filled with junk.
Then she walked up the path, casting reluctantly admiring glances at the neat edges. This was a thorough job. If Evan had been motivated to do this, he might get inspired to do the other chores on the ever-lengthening list.
She didn't know where that would leave her. Surprisingly, she felt mixed emotions at the thought that he was now acting in a way that would mean she didn't have to nag. An underlying sense of disappointment simmered.
Was she the one who was pushing the relationship into conflict? The thought lingered for only a moment before she pushed it aside. Surely impossible—she wasn't that person.
She mounted the steps and paused at the door. There was a note on the door in neat block capitals: "WELCOME HOME SHIREE."
Her eyebrows rose. That was sweet of him, she had to admit. He was definitely making an effort here, going above and beyond, in fact. The writing was very neat, a departure from the usual scrawl that in happier times, she'd joked meant he should have been a doctor.
Had he sensed that she was pushed to her limits? It seemed like he must have somehow realized that she was not taking this another moment. That was good, right?
She opened the front door, noticing that the doormat was also free of the usual coating of dust and leaves. However, when she tried to turn the key, she realized that the front door had been left unlocked and that was a no-no.
Irritation, briefly quelled by the sight of the swept path, flared inside her again. She'd told Evan how many times that they needed to lock the door when they got home.
“They” being him.
"We live in a good neighborhood, but that doesn't mean there aren't burglars and robbers around," she had lectured him. "I don't want to lose what we have. That flatscreen TV, the laptops, my clothes, and we always keep cash in the house."
"But there's insurance, baby," he'd argued, smiling. "And I do lock up when it gets dark."
"Insurance isn't enough," she'd countered. "I work in the industry, but I’m still the first to say that prevention’s better. There are excess payments, your premiums go up, and it’s a whole hassle in any case. It's easier just to do things right. Isn't it?"
Sighing that things still weren't perfect, Shiree walked inside. She turned and locked the door behind her immediately. Someone had to do it and that was her.
With the door locked, she paused and sniffed. What was that smell?
It was delicious! Garlic, onion, the smell of browning beef. She'd always been a sucker for fine food, and the aroma that greeted her was as fine as any she'd ever smelled. Without a doubt, a sumptuous dish was being prepared in their large kitchen, which she'd always felt was over specified for their needs. Although it suited the house—came with the house, as Evan liked to joke—neither of them used it often. Shiree always resented the idea that she should be the one to come home and cook after a hard day's work, especially when Evan hadn't done his chores. And when he wasn’t working, Evan was usually online, watching TV, or playing a game and pulling him away from his screen when he was glued to it always seemed impossible.
She took off her shoes, obeying another rule in this house, and crossed the polished floorboards in her stockinged feet.
Maybe she'd been wrong, she acknowledged as she headed for the kitchen, noticing as she glanced inside that the living room was tidied and that there was even a pitcher of lemonade on the table with two glasses.
He really had turned over a new leaf, and she had to admit, she felt a grudging sense of admiration for the speed and thoroughness with which he'd done it. It really didn't seem like Evan at all.
Would she have found it so easy if it had been her who'd needed to backtrack? That was another rather uncomfortable thought that Shiree decided not to dwell on.
Instead, she decided, it was time to be gracious. To go through to the kitchen and thank him for what he'd done and for the surprising touches that had made coming home today feel so pleasant. She’d remind him about locking the front door, obviously. But after that, maybe they could have a different conversation.
Now that she was considering that, it felt oddly freeing as if she was going to give herself permission to be released from her critical mindset.
